Enlightening
by theyleaveanote
Summary: Irene Adler has come back. John acts like he's fine with Sherlock going to see her, but he finds himself wary, nervous, maybe...jealous? John can't shake the idea that something is going on between the two of them, which shouldn't upset him, really, because he and Sherlock are just friends. Right. And he's...completely fine with that. Yes. Rated M for naughty reasons. Johnlock.


**Enlighten: en-****_lahyt-_****n; verb (used with object)**

** to give intellectual or spiritual light to; to become ecstatically aware**

** syn: clarify, edify, teach, inform **

John had thought it over and decided it was worst when Sherlock did come home.

When he didn't, when that bloody man stayed out all night with _her_, well, John would wake up the next morning in the armchair, drool caking just under his lip, and make it to the shower to clean up and dress before Sherlock got back.

But when he didcome home, it was never before five in the morning or so; John couldn't be sure exactly because he would always fall asleep, and that was the problem. On the nights Sherlock came home, he seemed to sweep in like a bat, never rousing John. And the next morning, John would wake up in his own bed, in his pyjamas.

"I don't see the problem. You sleep horribly in the chair; why _wouldn't_ I move you?" Sherlock pointed out one morning. John had finally gathered the courage to challenge him about carrying a sleeping John to bed and tucking him in.

"It's humiliating!" John insisted through gritted teeth. "I am not a child." _She _made him feel like one, though. She, in all her nakedness and cleverness and how Sherlock got that odd look on his face when he came back from seeing her. She made him feel superfluous, and he hadn't felt that way since he met Sherlock.

"If you want me to stop carrying you to bed, then stop waiting up for me," Sherlock posited frankly, turning back to the newspaper. "It'd do wonders for your patients, at least."

At this, John fell silent, stabbing his toast with a bit more vigor than was needed. He wasn't sure why, he honestly _wasn't sure why _– though to be fair, he hadn't thought about it very much – but he just couldn't stop. Even though he hated sitting in that chair late into the night, distractedly flipping through channels on the telly or thumbing through paperwork, he couldn't go to bed while Sherlock was out.

She had only been back for two weeks, but Sherlock had gone to see her every single evening since.

_The _woman.

It was better in the chair, even though he knew that he would never stay awake until Sherlock got home. In the chair he felt like he was doing something, like he was part of the process. Sherlock was right of course, the lack of sleep was interfering with his work at the hospital, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep if he tried. He'd just lie in bed without the simple distraction of the telly and it would be even worse.

Then, on the night marking the third week, Sherlock didn't go out.

Sleep-deprived and irritated, John checked the clock over the dishwasher – which he was loading, of course, since Sherlock rarely helped clear the dishes. The man only ate half the time, but helped cook and clean almost never.

It was past 21:00, and Sherlock had left immediately after dinner every evening for the past twenty days, but tonight, he just sat on the couch flipping his long fingers through a novel.

John finished the dishes and stood in the doorframe to the sitting room, staring at Sherlock. Nearly 21:30 now, and Sherlock was sitting calmly. It irked John, for some reason. He had become accustomed to the nightly waiting, the frustration, the pointless speculation. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but without looking up, Sherlock gave it.

"She left last night."

John paused. There was something blossoming in his chest, something akin to elation and relief, way too overpowering for the situation.

"What?" he asked, although he had heard it perfectly. He walked forward and leaned on the back of the armchair to stare at Sherlock, to at least have something to do. He didn't quite know what to do with his hands.

"She's still in a considerable amount of danger, John, she couldn't stay in London for much longer. I imagine she'll be back, perhaps years from now, but she had to leave." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Obviously. You didn't think I was going to see her every evening indefinitely, did you?"

Yes, actually, though John supposed he hadn't thought it through all the way.

In those long nights in the armchair, there were fuzzy gaps in his usually straightforward logic. Gaps that he didn't want to fill, gaps that were scented vaguely like a certain coat collar and that rang with a deep, irritatingly handsome voice. The idea of Irene actually leaving had entered into one of these gaps and floated away into the files of the other notions John didn't want to entertain.

"I don't know. Of course not!" John shifted his weight, still leaning on the armchair. "So – you all right then?"

"Of course I'm all right," Sherlock said, but it wasn't defensive, like John had anticipated. It sounded genuine.

"I just mean – you know. You've been seeing her so much – what – what did you even talk about with her?" John couldn't believe _that_ question had slipped out, one of the most prominent ones within those gaps, _were you even talking or was it something more physical_ being one of the others, but John managed to bite that one in.

Sherlock turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. Someone had been chattering on the telly, but Sherlock peered closer, making John shift uncomfortably again, and the detective's finger snapped the _off_ button. Silence filled the flat as Sherlock stood, and in one step, was next to John.

"_Jealous_."

One word.

Just one bloody word, hardly two syllables, but the instant it slipped out of Sherlock's incredulous but certain mouth, John almost fell backwards from the realization that everything had just changed.

Or maybe not, maybe this was only those gaps becoming unfuzzed, clarified, being finally addressed, maybe this is how it was all along.

John couldn't take it.

He opened his mouth _what do you mean of course not that's ridiculous you're an idiot a self-absorbed git don't you dare tell me what I'm feeling – _

– but it didn't come out, it just wouldn't, and he closed his mouth again, frustrated, helpless, confused.

Sherlock moved imperceptibly closer, and John took another step back before sinking instead into the chair. He fell back against it. He couldn't seem to support the weight of his own body, especially not with Sherlock sucking all the air out of the room.

Sherlock swept in front of John again, looking down at him – oh this was _worse_, to have Sherlock looking down at him, those cheekbones even sharper from this angle.

"Well, it was you, John, in answer to your previous question," he said, sighing.

"What?" John asked, genuinely confused.

One corner of Sherlock's full mouth tugged up into a small smile.

"We talked about you."

John's heart was pounding uncomfortably. He did not understand what was going on, but he did _not _like the idea of Sherlock talking about him to that woman.

"What the – _why_?! What on earth did you have to talk about about _me_?"

"At first, we were just chatting about how she was getting on, of course." Sherlock ran one large hand through his own dark hair. "But when she started asking about me – inquiring, more like, as if she was doing research on how to _be_ me, since she thought she was until I defeated her, you know – she grabbed onto you as a subject and wouldn't drop it." Sherlock looked down at him, furrowing his brow. "You've been acting in the most peculiar manner ever since she returned. When I mentioned that, she seemed to think that I wasn't being honest with you, and now I suppose she was right. In fact if you think for a single moment that you need to be _jealous_, I know she was."

"What are you on about?" John's voice didn't sound like his. He couldn't quite believe that he was actually having this conversation. He was completely in the moment. The twin, slightly uneven peaks of Sherlock's upper lip. The hollows of Sherlock's cheeks. The bobbing of Sherlock's Adam's apple as he swallowed. John was focused on this. He did not think about what was going to happen in the next few moments. All his fuzzy gaps were filling his head and becoming painfully sharp and he couldn't bear it. An instant before Sherlock reached out and took his wrist, John became aware that his blood was racing through him, heat spiking in every part of his body as adrenaline quickened his pulse.

The very pulse that Sherlock was, of course, taking, likely as a final proof.

"I thought you knew, John." Sherlock shook his head, smiling. His fingers were warm and steady around John's trembling wrist. "There is absolutely no one in this world for me except you. I thought you knew that."

John froze.

He bit his lip.

He gritted his teeth.

He opened his mouth.

He closed his mouth.

Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Irene interests me, like a case that wants to be solved. You, John – you are something quite else entirely. You make me want to understand parts of this world and myself that I never cared about before. You make me better than myself." His smile was a warm one, the one reserved especially for John. "I thought you knew."

Sherlock leaned forward. John deduced what was about to happen an instant before it did, and Sherlock laughed quietly – his hand still on John's wrist, he could feel John's heart pounding quicker.

Sherlock's lips just barely pressed a kiss into John's soft cheek before he pulled away, smiled, and turned to walk out of the room.

Just barely, but it sent something like electricity coursing through the smaller man, and John leapt to his feet.

Heart racing, _that smug bastard, you can't just_ – John caught up to Sherlock in two strides. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and spun him around, pressing him against the wall. John relished the look of surprise and – was that delight? – on Sherlock's face before he closed the space between them with a kiss that was, altogether, probably more violent than it needed to be.

John pinned him against the wall, and kissed hard. He tried to savor the moment, really he did. This was his first kiss with Sherlock, and judging by how Sherlock was kissing back, the first out of many. The man tasted incredible, as John somehow always knew he would, rich and sweet. John could finally experience what it felt like to suck on that plump bottom lip. Yet try as he might to memorize every second, John knew all too well that there would be so many kisses to come, and right now, he just couldn't fully process, he let that happen subconsciously – he could only kiss.

"All this time," he managed, tiptoeing to get a better angle, though Sherlock was crouching for him, "all this time, you've – you've fancied me?"

"Yes."

"You've wanted to be with me?"

"Yes."

"You've wanted – me?"

"Well, John, I love you."

John stared at him.

Sherlock's mouth was open slightly, and his chest was heaving. His eyes were bright beneath his dark messy curls. His perfect nose twitched slightly, and he was smiling.

John slapped him, backhanded, across the face.

"I believe that was rather unnecessary," Sherlock panted, his hand going to his cheek.

"_All this time_," John reminded him, growling. "You could've bloody _said _something."

"Irene said you'd be mad," Sherlock sighed. John felt a familiar twinge of jealousy at Irene's name, but as he possessively pushed his body closer to Sherlock's, he noticed something that made him almost deliriously happy.

"You're hard."

Sherlock blushed faintly, still holding his cheek.

"You're kissing me."

"I didn't know you – " John cleared his throat. He still could not believe he was having this conversation. "I didn't know you, you know. Really _did_ sex, you know. I didn't think sex was something that interested you."

Sherlock's gaze softened. His free hand went to John's waist, pulling him closer.

"It wasn't."

John gaped for a moment – _he, John Hamish Watson, was the one thing in the world that got Sherlock Holmes hard_ – but then his mouth figured out something better to do than hang open, and he pressed it against Sherlock's again.

Sherlock pulled him close, his broad hands against John's back, running through John's hair, stroking John's waist. John kissed him angrily, brimming with emotion.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to sit for a week," John swore, biting at Sherlock's lip. John thought he felt Sherlock flinch at this, but the man's hardness pressing into his thigh encouraged him, and he continued to plunder at Sherlock's mouth, fingers moving to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

The shirt fell open, and John was overcome with the desire to cover every inch of the pale soft skin in bruising kisses. He explored the hollows of the throat, the collarbones, the jawline he had admired from afar for so long, his tongue marking his favorite spots. Sherlock was surprisingly fantastically vocal, gasping and moaning as John ravaged his skin. John memorized every spot that made Sherlock rut his hips against John's waist, desperate for more.

When John moved to graze his teeth against Sherlock's pert pink nipple, though, Sherlock gasped, and it sounded different than the pleasured ones he had been making up until this point. John glanced up at him, concerned.

"I – _oh_, that feels good – I just – " Sherlock tugged on the hem of his open shirt, as if trying to look proprietous. "I'm a virgin."

John's eyebrows raised. He tried quickly to pull his own hips back so that Sherlock wouldn't realize that this in fact made him harder than ever, but of course it was too late, and Sherlock gave a faint grin.

"I guess that settles some of the debates Mrs. Hudson and I've been having," John mused, and Sherlock laughed out loud.

"I told you, I honestly didn't care for any of this until you."

At this, John sobered slightly. He began to realize that as monumentous this night was for him, it was beyond life-changing for Sherlock. This was a man who had never cared for anyone before, not like this. This was a man who had never had any desire for sex before. This was a man who hadn't thought he'd be better off with anyone else in the world caring for him until he met John, and John had just hit him in the face and told him he was going to get roughly shagged.

John kicked himself mentally. _And he'd thought _Sherlock _was heartless_.

"Look, we don't have to do this, okay? We don't have to do _this_, at least, not all the way." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the cheek where he had slapped him. "And I'm sorry about that."

"I deserved it, no doubt."

"No, no you didn't." As much as it had felt rather good to slap the man for hiding his feelings for so long, John couldn't bear to have Sherlock actually believe he warranted being hit. Ever. "Of course you didn't."

"Irene said you'd offer to not have sex the first time."

"You really did talk about me a lot, didn't you?"

"There's not much else on my mind these days, most of the time."

John fought to not smile too broadly, but the effort made his cheeks hurt.

"Well, she was right." Their bodies were still pressed together, and the sight of Sherlock looking so vulnerable and honest was something so new and tender, John couldn't help but feel his own erection stay painfully full. Nonetheless, he meant what he was saying. "We can take it slow, all right? We have plenty of time."

"I don't want to take it slow." Sherlock's eyes bored straight into John, and John could feel his cock stiffening further. "I trust you. Wholly and completely, I trust you. And I want you to take me." He leaned forward, pressing their bodies even closer together until his lips were at John's ear. "Now."

"Are you sure? I don't want to pressure you at all, I swear, we can go at whatever pace you like – "

"Fuck me in the ass, John."

John slammed him into the wall, kissing him painfully rough, and Sherlock seemed to be doing his best to keep up, though he was probably just enjoying John's urgency.

John clutched at Sherlock's chest, pulling the shirt all the way off. Sherlock's skin was smooth and hot and smelled overwhelmingly inviting. Sherlock nudged him forward slightly, murmuring between heavy breathing – "_Bedroom._"

"Yours or mine?" John asked, digging his fingers enthusiastically into Sherlock's full round ass. He wondered vaguely why Sherlock was still wearing pants.

"Up to you. I don't care particularly."

"And you think I do?" John flicked his tongue over Sherlock's nipple, a rush of pride coursing through him as he felt Sherlock rub his erection harder against John's waist at the sensation. "I'd have you on the kitchen floor."

Sherlock snorted.

"Let's not, if only for Mrs. Hudson's sake. Yours, then."

"All right." John pulled back to lead Sherlock into his bedroom. Their eyes met, and John's stomach turned over. _What if I cock this all up – no bloody pun intended, damn it all. This is his first time. And he wants it with me. What if I do something wrong? Or what if I'm just fucking awful?_

"Don't be nervous." Sherlock smirked. "Remember, it's not like I'll have anything to compare you to, besides previous studies conducted. I don't have first-hand evidence with which to evaluate you."

_What if I hurt him?_

"I've never done this before," John admitted. "Not with a – a bloke, I mean." Sherlock was pulling off John's jumper.

"Yes, I know." Sherlock took his chin in one hand and kissed him, lingering but chaste.

Then he crawled backwards onto John's bed, settled himself on the pillows, stared up and John, and began to rub the bulge in his trousers.

"Now come here and help me with this," he said quietly, and John had to fight from keeping his jaw dropping again.

He covered Sherlock's body with his own, kissing gentler now but still firmly. John's own erection was rock hard, and he knew he couldn't wait any longer to get started if he wanted to be anything like a decent shag for more than two minutes.

"I – um. I happen to have some lube here. Hold on a tick." John blushed slightly as he pulled open his bottom drawer and pulled out a tube he used for his – ahem – personal time, on occasion. "Hands get bloody _dry _in a London winter, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You don't need to justify your lubricant to me, John. First off, it's convenient and useful for the present situation, and furthermore, I'm fully aware that you use lube to wank off occasionally."

"Of course you are."

"I can hear the vaguely wet sounds coming from your room in the eveni – _ah!"_

John had covered Sherlock's still-clothed erection with his mouth, squeezing gently and breathing warm air on it.

"So this shuts you up. I'll have to remember that."

"John…"

Sherlock's voice was so laden with apprehension and arousal that John couldn't quite keep up being a brat to him. He glanced up, and realized something that should've been obvious.

"You've never had a blow-job, either."

"Clearly."

John hadn't even considered this.

"Look, I've never given one before – "

"I know."

"But I'm going to try for a bit, all right?"

The red brushstrokes that were Sherlock's lips parted slightly, in what looked like both eagerness and disbelief and – _love_. _Oh fuck that's right, he, John, hadn't actually said it back yet. _He didn't quite know how, not just yet, so instead John unbuttoned Sherlock's straining trousers and pulled down his pants.

It was John's turn to raise his eyebrows.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked, somewhat snappily. John could tell he was nervous.

"No – it's just – " John breathed. He had had a nagging worry that, after all his complicated feelings towards Sherlock, he just wouldn't be attracted to the sight of a naked man. He had examined men before, being a doctor, and they'd never done anything for him. Clearly, though, Sherlock was different, and those worries were entirely unfounded. "Your cock is _exquisite_."

It seemed like the only word for it, engorged and thick and hard as it was. The tight skin was still smooth from almost no contact, and it was nestled in a bed of soft dark curls. The testicles were almost unnaturally even, and full nearly to bursting through the shaft. The head had pushed its way almost entirely past the foreskin, with a drop of pearly precum forming at the slit that just begged to be licked off.

John wanted to make this cock pulse with the best fucking orgasm it had ever had.

He parted Sherlock's thighs slightly, reveling in the fact that he had Sherlock Holmes laid out completely naked and turned-on for him in his bed. He smirked at the sight of that small puckered asshole, untouched and waiting for him.

First things first, however.

John licked his lips and took that cock full in his throat. The poorly stifled yelp of delight Sherlock let out was enough to make John's own hardness strain painfully against his trousers. He undid the buttons with one hand, relieving some of the pressure, as he tried to remember what the best head he'd ever gotten felt like. He moved fast, then took Sherlock as deep into his mouth as he could, swallowing, tightening his muscles around the length. Sherlock was babbling something incoherent that sounded like _oh fuck yes, Jesus Christ, John_ and clawing at the bedsheets, which encouraged John to experiment a bit, now that he knew he was doing well. He pulled back and tugged the foreskin down gently to expose the head. He swirled his lips around it, prodding the tip of his tongue against the dripping slit.

"You're wet for me, Sherlock," John murmured. "Your cock is hard for me, and you're leaking precum. For me."

Sherlock's slender chest was heaving; his eyes clenched shut. He opened his mouth but he either wasn't versed in talking dirty or he was too aroused to speak; John figured smugly that it was a bit of both.

"Next time, I swear I'll suck you off until you cum, okay?" John reached for the tube. "I swear I'll let you fuck my mouth until you erupt and then I'll swallow every last drop." Sherlock forced his eyes open and peered at John imploringly. "But right now, I want to fuck you." Sherlock gave a shuddering gasp and wriggled closer to John. It was clear that he had never been this aroused before, ever, and he didn't quite know what to do with himself. _I'll take care of you_, John thought to himself. "I'm going to stretch you a bit first though, all right? You need to relax."

Sherlock swallowed hard as John coated three fingers in lube. As John positioned his first finger at Sherlock's entrance, he paused, trying to reassure himself. He had fingered girls before, yeah, but it wasn't the same, and he had given exams but that _definitely _wasn't the same. He didn't need to voice any of this though, Sherlock knew.

"Please," Sherlock said, his throaty voice just above a whisper. "I trust you. _Please_."

He had almost _never _said that word before in the time John knew him, and John knew this was because he only said it when he really, really meant it, and so John slid a finger inside of him.

He was so fucking tight and hot, so virginal and ready to be explored that John's somewhat softening cock stiffened to full mast almost immediately at the prospects of being inside it. Sherlock gripped at the bedsheets again at the intrusion, his mouth falling open wordlessly, but his lips had turned up into a sort of ecstatic smile, and John added a second finger.

John pushed deeper into Sherlock's ass, pushing past the first clenched ring of muscle and stroking gently.

"How does it feel?"

Eyes shut tight again, mouth somewhat permanently open in a shape not unlike a heart, Sherlock managed to chuckle.

"Odd – but then – _quite _good," he panted.

"I'm going to add a third finger, okay?" John said. Sherlock nodded feverishly, his curls shaking. As he slid in the third finger, making Sherlock's breath catch, John focused on remembering his rudimentary internal anatomy lessons. He went back in his mental files of med school notes to a page he hadn't used in a while, and found what he was looking for. He shifted his angle and pressed upwards, right on –

"_Fuck!_" Sherlock's eyes shot open, and he writhed, almost wrenching the sheets off the side of the bed.

"Did that hurt?" John asked hurriedly. "I'm sorry, I – "

"_No, _for God's sake, John, _do that again._"

John raised his eyebrows. Having never actually had his own prostate stimulated, he didn't really know what it was like, he had only hoped it felt as good as promised, for Sherlock's sake. Now he figured he'd have to get Sherlock to return the favor at some point.

He pressed up and rubbed against that spot again, gratified to discover that if he'd thought Sherlock was vocal _before_, when Sherlock was getting fingered he was full-out _loud_. John took such pleasure in the velvety moans Sherlock was eliciting that he couldn't help but lower his lips to Sherlock's cock and suck again, pressing rhythmically against the man's prostate at the same time.

Sherlock's thighs tightened around John's shoulders.

"If I had known that sex could actually feel this good I might have confided in you months ago," Sherlock groaned between choked gasps. At this, John couldn't help but give a rather unnecessarily rough jab with his fingers, because _yes you bloody well should have_, but Sherlock only laughed. "We'll make up for lost time, I suppose," and then John figured out how to deepthroat quicker and Sherlock briefly lost the ability to speak. "Wait – wait – !" he managed after a few more minutes.

John pulled himself off Sherlock's cock, and wiped his mouth, though he kept thrusting his somewhat aching fingers into Sherlock's ass. He was pleased with himself for finding this button that essentially turned the world's only consulting detective into a mewling bundle of arousal.

"What?" he asked, licking his lips. Sherlock tasted almost inhumanly fantastic, probably because he barely ate anything, which wasn't very good. John would prefer the precum taste harsher if it meant that Sherlock was eating more protein, but he'd discuss that later. His own cock was throbbing, but he wanted still wanted to make sure Sherlock was prepared enough."

"You need to fuck me now, John." Sherlock said, spreading his thighs wider. _Jesus._

"Are – are you sure?"

"Look at me."

Sherlock's entrance was slick and open from the copious amounts of lube – John _really _hadn't wanted it to hurt, and perhaps had been a little overzealous – and his cock was rock-hard, glazed with precum.

"If you keep – doing what you're doing, I'm going to finish in a minute, and I want you to fuck me," Sherlock finished, voice growing hoarse.

Just before he was about to give in, John realized something else.

"Have you – _had _an orgasm before?"

Sherlock smiled at him.

"Yes, though I suppose that's not an obvious answer. I _have _touched myself, but only a few times over the years. It's never felt anything like when you're touching me, of course."

John pulled off his own trousers and pants, finally freeing his erection. He barely had time to be embarrassed when Sherlock stared at his cock appreciatively.

"Touch yourself for me, Sherlock," John murmured, positioning his throbbing hard-on at Sherlock's wet asshole. "I want to see you wank yourself off while I fuck you. I want to see the great Sherlock Holmes wank himself off with my cock in his ass." _I also want to make sure you get off and I'm too close to losing control to be able to take care of it myself_. _Also, that's fucking _satisfying, _damn it._ Sherlock understood, and as John eased himself inside, he grabbed at his own cock.

John let out a gravelly groan as Sherlock's ass clenched tight around his cock. He pushed Sherlock's thighs back so he could hit his prostate from the same angle again, and Sherlock whimpered – he bloody _whimpered_ – as his long fingers jerked his own prick.

"You're beautiful." John didn't even mean it as a compliment. He was trying to control his thrusts, to keep himself tempered, but Sherlock was moaning louder now, his voice a sultry rumble, and John had to fight to keep himself at a steady rhythm. It was a statement, an observation. "You're _beautiful_." Sherlock's bright eyes were fluttering open and shut, flashes of green-blue glimmer through long lashes, shining with sensual delirium. His lips were flushed pink with kisses and biting and they were open to reveal his wet brilliant mouth. His open mouth meant that his cheekbones were even more prominent, casting hollow shadows of his cheeks and making him look somewhat ethereal – and then there was his hand steadily jerking his own exquisite cock, and it was because of John, and "you're beautiful, you're _beautiful_," he couldn't stop.

Sherlock's free hand reached out and John grabbed it and held tight as he rocked in and out of Sherlock's ass, hitting that spot over and over again.

"I love you." John couldn't help but say it; he had meant to wait until this was over so Sherlock wouldn't think it was only in the heat of the moment, because it so obviously wasn't, but Sherlock knew, Sherlock knew what it meant, Sherlock knew that it meant everything, absolutely everything in the universe to John, and, holding John's hand tight, Sherlock came.

His body stiffened and writhed in ecstasy, and for the first time, John saw Sherlock really lose control. Except it wasn't a loss, really, Sherlock was only giving the control to John, trusting him entirely as Sherlock let his own body be wracked with the orgasm, ass clenching tight around John's cock as his own released white jets onto his stomach.

John sped up to finish a moment later and Sherlock squirmed deliciously as his ass was shot full of John's cum.

Sticky and sweaty and hoping beyond hope that it had gone well though he figured it had, John pulled out and lay next to Sherlock. The taller man curled up into his arms, nuzzling against his chest.

"I love you," John repeated. "I love you, Sherlock." The words sounded so natural on his tongue, as if he was simply opening his mouth to let his heart speak. "How was that? Did it feel okay?"

"Obviously," Sherlock mumbled, his words half-lost under John's arm, but he was smiling. "You see, John, you had nothing to be jealous of." He chuckled softly. "It's rather cute, though."

"Shut up."

"You're adorable."

"Be quiet."

"You're beyond adorable, adorable doesn't begin to cover it, you're the most handsome man – the most fantastic lover – "

"How would you know, you don't have anyone to compare me to!" John was bright red, and he couldn't seem to pull Sherlock close enough to him. Millions of places their skin was touching and it didn't feel like enough; he wanted Sherlock as close to him as possible, all the time.

"I don't need anyone to compare you to. I don't need anyone else."

**Epilogue**

Sherlock's scarves served double purpose now – he wore them not only for the cold and because he was used to them, but because his boyfriend simply could not stop coating his throat – as well as most other parts of his body – with languishing love bites.

Irene saw the telltale bruise peeking out from beneath the scarf in one of the photos her connections sent her.

She gave a puppet-master's smile, content.

**END**


End file.
